


Feeling This

by serenadinsirens



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Ambiguous Relationships, Kissing, M/M, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3423179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenadinsirens/pseuds/serenadinsirens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many things in life that are true; the sky is blue, the grass is green, Michael Jones and Ray Narvaez Jr have a bromance (give or take the 'b') that defies any sorts of laws that nature can put down. And that's what they were known for; being bros who played guitar and wrote songs in a band and put on crazy antics together.</p><p>And just like all best friends, they had their fair share of kissing while tangled together in one of their bunks.</p><p>Wait, all best friends do that... right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling This

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I saw the 'Bohemian Rhapsody' video from Let's Play Live and decided that it was the best thing that I've ever seen, so here's the spawn of that. Be sure to check out the AH Band AU on tumblr!
> 
> for reference:
> 
> Geoff on Vocals  
> Michael on Rhythm Guitar  
> Ray on Lead Guitar  
> Ryan on Bass  
> Jack on Drums
> 
> and Gavin isn't mentioned really all that much in here but he is also the occasional pianist, though most of the time no one is quite sure what he actually does.

“Shut up, Ryan, we all wanna fuck you.”

1800 residents of Columbus, Ohio scream their hearts out from where they were in the pit and Ray Narvaez Jr pauses with his hand over the strings of the guitar. Well, that was a new one- well, maybe not new per se, he reads it all the time in fan letters and hears it screeched out when he hands his guitar over to Caleb so he could climb onto the barrier and high five fans at the end of the show. But to hear it coming out of Michael Jones, his bandmate’s mouth, _onstage_ , was definitely a new one. Ray raises an eyebrow and looks over at his friend.

“Okay, Michael’s bringing up a point all of us had in a _very_ drunken discussion last night-” Geoff Ramsey, their mustached lead vocalist, starts from his spot in the middle of the stage.

“I was not a part of this discussion,” Ray interjects into the microphone. It was the first he was hearing about it, probably because he tended to stay away from most drunken shenanigans the _Achiever_ band and crew have together, being the only other sober one with Ryan.

“Ray didn’t hear this because he’s a boring, pussy bitch who would rather play Pokemon than have a good time-”

“-well, I mean, Pokemon _is_ a good time-”

“But basically it came out at about 3:30 in the morning that, uh, we all kind of want to get in your pants, Ryan. You’re a sexy one,” Geoff winks at Ryan and the crowd screams again- either for Ryan being sexy (which he was), or for Geoff admitting that he found Ryan sexy (because the fans really ate all of that gay shit up for some reason, which blows his mind since the entire band had long forgone any sense of heterosexuality before they even really started to “make it” in the industry. Seriously, he and Michael probably spent more time cuddling, even _kissing_ , than they did actually playing their instruments).

“Okay,” Ryan trails off on the last syllable, eyes turned towards the ceiling, “so this was a drunken conclusion you all came to?”

“I mean, we all agreed this morning that we still would fuck you, if given the chance,” Geoff shrugs, “chance of course meaning you actually didn’t have a wife and kid. We don’t want to break up your happy family.”

“Well, Michael would fuck _anyone_ given the chance,” Ryan counters and Ray almost feels offended on Michael’s part, _almost_ , if Michael wasn’t a fucking tool, or if what Ryan said wasn’t remotely true, which- _spoiler alert!_ \- there was a fair amount of authenticity to his statement. “He’s kind of like the band slut. He’s a band slut that’s _in_ the band!” Well, Ryan, ‘slut’ isn’t a very nice word.

“That’s true, I’m a fucking whore,” Michael agrees from where he was next to Ray.

Geoff adjusts his microphone, “Michael who’s- who’s your favorite fuck, like, out of all of us?”

“Uh, that would be me, obviously,” Ray says with a hand raised, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, because it _was_ a fact, absolutely, that Ray was Michael’s favorite _anything_ ; 100% an undeniable truth, and a truth that Ray, to be completely honest, was willing to fight just about anybody over. Also, even if they hadn’t quite had _sex_ yet, Michael and Ray kissed probably a hundred times more often than any of the other band mates did. Come to think of it, none of the rest of them really kissed at all.

C’est la vie, Ray guesses.

“Definitely not Ray, I fuckin’ hate his ass,” Michael says without looking at him, and Ray reasons it was to piss him off, not that it would work, anyways, since Michael was obviously lying. It was just a fact of life; the sky is blue, the grass is green, and Ray and Michael have a bromance (give or take the ‘b’) that defies all laws of nature.

“That’s not what you said last night! ‘Fuckin’ told me you loved me,” and Ray was of course referring to Michael crawling into the bunk- _Geoff’s_ bunk, as it happened to be, rather than his own, drunk off his ass at 4 am and poking Ray in his cheek telling him he was the best, most amazing person ever. Unfortunately, it probably came off sounding a little different to the audience. “That sounded really sexual. It wasn’t sexual.”

“I was gonna say, you were in _my_ bunk last night,” Geoff says, giving Ray a look, the crowd going wild, “I am _not_ washing anyone’s jizz out of the sheets other than my own.”

“Your bunk is right next to the vent! It’s so much more comfortable.”

Michael laughs, “also, Ray, you followed up the question of who my favorite fuck was with ‘you told me you loved me last night’. You brought this fucking discussion to a whole new level!”

“Well, you said you hated me and I was just saying that you came up to me after this entire ‘let’s bang the shit out of Ryan’ discussion and said ‘Ray, I love you, dude!’ and I was like, ‘thanks, man, it means a lot’. I was calling your bluff, asshole!” Ray counters, and Michael shakes his head with another chuckle.

“Do you typically say thank you after people tell you they love you?” Ray could barely hear Ryan ask from the other side of the stage, but he was too busy making eye contact with Michael (something they seemed to do a lot, come to think of it), hoping to convey the teasing sort of message he was sending.

“Ray, you’re a fuckin’ moron, dude,” Michael chides, absentmindedly strumming his guitar.

“Yeah, but you do love me, though. That’s why all the songs you write are about me,” and that was a subtle sort of dig at the audience who took every chance they could to interpret their songs to fuel their homosexual ships. Seriously, Ray and Michael? Homosexual? Try bisexual, idiots. Regardless, Michael laughs and turns away from the mic, signaling to Jack, who had been uninterestedly watching the scene play out in front of him from where he was behind the drums, to start them off with their next song.

“Long story short, we really wanna bang Ryan,” Geoff concludes.

“This song is about Ray!” Michael cries into his mic before Jack counts them off and Ryan starts out the bassline of fan favorite, _‘Blue-eyed Bitch’_ , and sends the crowd immediately cheering, and pushing almost impossibly closer towards the barrier. Ray shakes his head, knowing full well that out of any of the songs Michael had written, _‘Blue-eyed Bitch’_ certainly wasn’t going to be the one written about him. Not only did he not have blue eyes, but Ray knew for a fact that the song was written about this girl named Maureen that Michael was sleeping with behind her boyfriend’s back who decided to actually be faithful and broke it off.

Maureen was a nice girl. Michael is a dickhead. Ray is kind of in love with one of the two.

It shouldn’t be too hard to figure which one it is.

\--

The curtain to Ray’s bunk is pulled open, and suddenly there is too much light.

“What,” despite it being a question word, Ray puts it out as a statement and closes his DS, along with his eyes because god _damn it there is just too much light_.

“Scooch,” he hears the all-too familiar voice of Michael Jones hiss and Ray follows suit, giving his friend room to squeeze in right next to him. Ray still hasn’t opened his eyes, but he could feel Michael’s cocky grin and smell the liquor still on his breath. Gross. “Hey, babe. What’s shakin’, bacon?”

Ray opens his eyes just to roll them, “bacon, believe it or not, is shaking. What about you? Get sick of destroying your liver enough to come cuddle?” it was a tight squeeze, that was for sure, but Michael and Ray had been in this same position time and time again; their legs entangled and foreheads resting together, Michael’s arm looped around Ray’s back and his fingers absentmindedly drumming against his shoulder blade, and Ray’s hand splayed across Michael’s abdomen, feeling his body move with his lungs with every breath he took.

Michael snorts. “You’re such a whiner,” he chimes, closing the space between his and Ray’s bodies by burying his face into the Puerto Rican’s shoulder and pulling him closer, “the _Funhaus_ guys are pretty fuckin’ entertaining partiers. That Adam Kovic guy just sang through all of Something Corporate’s _Konstantine_ while his buddy played the piano part by blowing into a beer bottle. Andrew McMahon couldn’t have done it better.”

“Andrew McMahon is a fucking legend, you take that back,” Ray says, moving his hands up Michael’s stomach and resting them on his chest, his eyes falling shut as silence takes the two of them. Only the sounds of a poor rendition of a Meatloaf song and their breathing could be heard between either of them, and there was something very calming about that. Ray holds Michael tighter and sighs.

“You shoulda joined us,” Michael murmurs into Ray’s shoulder and Ray hopes that Michael doesn't catch the way that Ray's body tenses in anticipation of the age old ‘be more social’ chastising.

“Nah, copious amounts of alcohol ain’t my cup of tea,” Ray replies with a hushed tone.

“‘s ‘cuz it’s not tea, asshole, it’s alcohol,” the red head says, and the way his words are slurred slightly together makes Ray think that Michael may have had more to drink than he had at first thought he did- Michael and alcohol was an idea that he'd gotten used to a while ago, but the scent was still foul, “you coulda’t least said hey. The _Funhaus_ guys are cool dudes.”

“I’ll be sure to introduce myself tomorrow,” he ends the conversation there.

He feels Michael sigh, long and deep, and brush his lips against his neck. " _Ray_ ," he breathes, drawing out his name a beat too long, the hot breath ghosting over Ray's throat and sending goosebumps down the entire left side of his body, "I love you, Raybles." And Michael begins to press his lips repeatedly to Ray's neck, the kisses soft and slow, but definite as they worked their way up the length of his throat.

"I know you do, Michael," Ray replies with a content hum, eyes slipping closed as Michael's mouth moves across his jawline and down to his collar, leaving minuscule, wet marks in its wake. Ray sighs and lets the warm feeling fill his chest and slip into his bloodstream, the amicable and easy sensation circulating through his veins with every heartbeat. It was a comforting feeling of rest that buzzes in his fingertips that drumming and gripping at the sides of Michael's shirt, and it was the way he could feel his heart throb with his tongue through the vibrations against the roof of his mouth.

"Do you love me?" Michael mumbles into the skin beneath Ray's ear, his words coming out in a heated exhale that clashed with the cold, natural air of the room as he pulls his mouth away, hovering just above the edge of his jaw.

"Of course I do, dude, I think that's pretty obvious," Ray responds fondly, though hoping his voice doesn't display the petty feeling of loss he held over Michael's missing kisses, "you're, like, my favorite person _ever_."

Michael buries his face in Ray's neck again. "I don't believe you," he teases.

"Would _I_ lie to you?" well, probably, but it didn't really hurt to ask, now did it?

"Uh, yeah, 11th grade, remember?" Michael was of course referring to the incident where Ray had been mad at him for whatever reason- probably being a dick, or not letting him copy the English homework, whatever. It was a big deal then, doesn't matter now, seven years later. Regardless, Ray was pissed off, so he decided to take his revenge on Michael and made him think there was a big paper due in APUSH, 4000 words minimum, that he needed to finish. It went on for about a week before Michael caught on. Needless to say, he wasn't happy, but at the same time, at least they were even.

"Yeah, but that one was _funny_ ," Ray says idly, running a hand through Michael's hair as his friend snuggles deeper into the crook of his neck.

"Dick," Michael chides, and Ray doesn't have the heart to disagree; he _was_ a dick, that was one thing basically everyone was aware of, "you're a liar and you don't love me."

 "Jesus fucking  _Christ_ , Michael," he was baiting Ray into it; he knows it, and Ray knows it, and if they left the van and asked a random person what they thought of the current situation, they would probably know it, too, and Ray, above all other knowledge, knows that he couldn't help but give in to Michael's requests. 

Ray shrugs Michael off his shoulder so that his head hits the pillow they both were sharing, and Ray watches as Michael's eyes blink open to stare right back at him. Ray's heart jumps into his throat. Michael's eyes were ones he'd seen time and time again, filled with rage, crinkled in a smile, even lined to the brim with tears on the day his dog died. And nights like tonight, especially, were common when they were blown wide with the childish wonder alcohol set off in his system, the pupils dilated. And Michael's eyes were eyes that Ray could never bring himself to deny, that was for sure. They meant absolutely  _everything_ to him.

"I fucking _l_ _ove_ you, dude," Ray says, and the world follows his heartbeat and stutters.

Michael's smile is the last thing Ray sees on his lips before they were pressed to his.

They're soft, he muses, and warm. Two obvious characteristics, but the best words he could put out to describe them. Their mouths move together in a smooth rhythm that Ray had long since grown accustomed to, loving the way that Michael knew him just as well. Their lips slot together like when God created the two of them with his celestial marble and hammer, he'd molded them already in an embrace before chiseling them into two separate people. It felt right, that was the best way to put it. Kissing Michael just felt _right_.

It was home.

Ray fucking hates alcohol, but he can stand the taste when it's coming off of Michael's tongue, pressing insistently to the crack between his lips. Ray complies, and their tongues sweep across each other, Ray humming in contentment, but trying not to make a face at the inebriant flavor. Michael's lips pull away briefly, still hovering just above Ray's own so that their breaths mingled and the oxygen dwindled as Michael shifts. He grabs onto Ray's side and flattens him out onto the bunk as he throws a leg over, knocking his knee on his own bunk above them in the process, so that he was straddling him. Their mouths crash together again, the older's teeth sinking lightly into Ray's bottom lip, causing the other to groan and gasp and grab on to Michael's hips.

Michael's mouth breaks off from Ray's finds the space where his neck and shoulder meet and Ray decides then, though not for the first time, that making out with your best friend is fucking  _awesome_. He can't help the sigh that escapes his lips as Michael's make their way across his collar bone, leaving burning remainders in their wake before finding a spot on his shoulder and  _clamping down_. Ray chokes down a groan, working his fingers beneath the hem of Michael's shirt and hoping that none of the _Funhaus_ guys would decide to venture out towards the bunks. Not the best first impression.

"Ray," Michael breathes between the trail of hot, open mouthed kisses up Ray's neck, "what would you say,"  _kiss kiss kiss kiss_ "if I asked,"  _kiss kiss kiss kiss_ "if I could jerk you off?"  _kiss kiss kiss **bite**_. The locomotive to Ray's mind that had been pouring hot steam, chugging a thousand miles per hour with every kiss that Michael had been delivering all of a sudden comes to a complete fucking  _stop._

"Uh," is the only decipherable thing that leaves Ray's mouth, coming out as an airy half-moan from a mix of arousal and confusion, as Michael's hands moved their way up Ray's thighs, pausing at the top, but not brushing his groin, before leaving all together to cup his cheeks and look at him. The air escapes Ray's lungs as he rubs the skin under Michael's shirt and searches his eyes- those  _brown eyes_ that he adores and knows so well, but also the same chestnut eyes with pupils blown up from the alcohol coursing through his system. Does Ray want Michael to get him off? Holy shit. Absolutely, without a doubt would he let him do anything he fucking wants with him. But now? Now was a different story.

"I'd say," Ray starts, slipping his hands out from under his friend's shirt, but not breaking eye contact once, "that it sounds like a better idea when you're not drunk off your ass."

Michael gives an incredulous laugh, "Ray, you're not fuckin' takin' advantage of me, or some shit. I trust you," but despite his insisting words, Michael sits up more- even though his head was almost hitting the upper bunk, swaying with the movement, but still, he was backing off. And Ray appreciates the effort.

"I know," Ray says, sitting up on his elbows, "so trust me."

The red head gives a defeated groan, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk and effectively off of Ray. "You're so  _boring,_ " he grumbles, losing the effort he had to stand up and instead resorting to flopping down, half off the mattress and looking positively fucking ridiculous.

"That's me," Ray chirps, rolling over onto his side and pressing himself up against the back of the bus to give his best friend more room, "now get the fuck over here."

 Michael makes an attempt to move, his body swaying and almost falling off the bunk had it not been for Ray's hands flying out and steadying him. And Ray grabs him, pulling him into him so that his back was pressed up against Ray's front, in quite the effective spooning decision. Ray breathes in Michael's scent (pine, alcohol, axe spray over body odor, home), nuzzling his nose into the back of his neck, where he could count all of the freckles that would follow down his back. The red head's body started to rise and fall at a much more steady pace, Ray looping his arm around the side and cuddling into him. 

Michael is warm. He's warm and he's cozy and he's comforting and there's always a part of him that smells like spring.

\--

"Holy fucking  _shit_ , Pittsburgh! How the hell are you doing?!"

The front lights beam upon an entire crowd of people, probably the largest show they've played all tour, capping at almost 3000 eager people, men and women and teenagers and college students and parents who didn't want to be there, all gathered in the same room to see them. It's the first time in a long time that Ray really feels like a rock star, but the emotion quickly passes as he takes the time to really question why these people paid their money to see five idiots effectively fuck everything up.

"So, this is the part of the show where we vamp for a couple minutes and make your parents mad at us," Geoff pulls his microphone from the stand and walks over towards Ryan on the other side of the stage, peering out over the edge towards the crowd, who cheer enthusiastically, "apparently that's our 'pull', or whatever. Not the fucking music we make, but more the thirty minutes we take out of every show to talk to you guys. Thanks for buying our CDs, anyways."

"People say we've got a real _B_ _link-182_ vibe to us," Ray says, regretting that he probably wasn't going to live down comparing himself to Blink. Ever.

"Ray, I would go as far to say as we're  _better_ than Blink," Michael Jones speaks up, making Ray feel a little better about the onslaught of tweets that he's going to receive after this. At least Michael would get a hundred times more.

"Oh, we're definitely better than Blink," Geoff says, voice hinting at something almost resentful.

"And what does that mean, Geoff?"

Geoff sighs, walking back towards his spot on the stage before attaching his mic back to the stand, "I mean, Blink-182 sucks dick, dude," and Geoff Ramsey takes the cake for the worst possible thing that he can never live down. Thanks, Geoff! " _All The Small Things_ might actually be the worst song ever written. My nine year old daughter can write better songs than that. It's awful."

 "You shut your mouth," Ray says, offended on behalf of the entirety of Blink-182, since they obviously weren't ever going to hear about this in the first place.

"Seriously, Geoff, you're in the minority here. Blink-182 has inspired literally every fucking band of the genre since-" Michael stops in his words as Geoff begins to mimic the song in a high-pitched, whiny voice, "Geoff, you're an atrocious fucking human being."

"I'm not-" Geoff cuts off with one of his world renowned laughs, "I'm not the only one! See, Gavin. Gavin, what do you think?" Geoff questions as Mr. Gavin Free, the legend himself, king of doing Nothing Important, pops his head out from backstage and screams something back at them. Ray couldn't hear from where he was, but they'd long since learned that Gavin's opinion was nothing to take seriously, anyways. "See, Gavin agrees with me!" But for some reason, Geoff always tries to use it to his advantage.

"Yeah, but it's  _Gavin_ , I don't think he even knows what music is."

Ray shakes his head, "Geoff, Tom DeLonge is crying himself to sleep right now."

"More like Tom De _Lame_ ," Geoff mutters into the mic before laughing at his own fucking stupid joke and cheering, bowing as the audience cheered with him. What a fucking cocksucker, seriously.

"Tom De _Longe-Dong_."

"Tom De _Long John Silver's_."

What an enthralling show. "This is what you've spent your thirty dollars on, folks," Ray says, absentmindedly strumming a chord on his guitar, "we're making Long John Silver's references and we're only fourty five seconds into our scheduled banter time. Still a minute and fifteen seconds to go. I hope you're all proud about what you've wasted your money on."

"Ray,  _no!_ All of our banter is totally unscheduled and improv'd! Don't ruin the illusion!" Michael cries, words biting off in a laugh as he points at Ray. This was another thing they often joked about as a group, the age old debates in the forums about whether or not they actually scripted their banter, and how much of it was  _actually_ banter or not. It got fucking ridiculous at points, and that's why  _Achiever's_ band and crew made fun of them so often. 

"Well, I mean, it's written on setlist down there how much time we have between songs," Ray replies, pointing at the paper setlist taped to the ground between he and Michael. Michael, in response, bends over (giving Ray an excellent view of his ass, so score on that part), and pulls the setlist up off the ground, crumples it up into a ball, and throws it into the crowd. "Well, now I don't know what the next song is."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ray, it's  _Heart of Gold_ , did you not pay any fuckin' attention during rehearsal?" Michael says, watching as people in the crowd literally tore up the setlist trying to keep it for themselves. 

"Now  _you've_ ruined the surprise," Ryan pipes up as Ray shrugs, not having any better of a response.

"You're right," Michael says hanging his head, "hey, Ray, I'm gonna dedicate this next song to you. And anyone else in the crowd, I hope you think of your favorite person in the whole world, someone who means a fuck ton to you when you sing along with this song, okay?!" Michael had an uncanny way of pandering to the crowd, everyone throwing their hands up and cheering, and Ray had to fight the urge to do the same. Of course he was his favorite person. They're best friends. And maybe in love. Maybe both. Probably both.

An amiable feeling rises up in his chest and Ray hopes that no one can see how stupidly he's smiling.

"I just want everyone to know that I love my wife," Jack's voice rises from behind them, the four bandmates standing in the front whirling around to look at him, "she's great. I love the woman to whom I'm married."

Geoff laughs, and Ryan grabs his mic without turning his body to speak to him, "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"You know. I just thought that maybe there was, uh, too much homosexual undertones going on onstage, so, y'know..."

"Holy shit, you don't have to make everything about  _you,_ Jack!"

But to Ray, it doesn't matter. "Hey, Michael," he speaks softly into his mic, watching as his friend turns back to meet him with raised eyebrows, "I love you, Michael."

The crowd cheers their asses off and his band mates groan, and Ray watches as a grin creeps up the edge of Michael's face- Ray's  _favorite_ smile in the whole wide world, let that be known; radiant, and it fills the room with the way he smiles without holding back, his lips pulling upward at the edge, his eyes trained towards the ground, and those godforsaken dimples appearing in his cheeks. It was the best thing to ever see, and Ray's the one who caused it. 

Jesus Christ, was he lucky.

"Thanks, man, it means a lot," Michael says and Ray feels the laugh bubble up in his chest, "take us away, Jerk-Off Pattillo!"

The drum intro starts, the crowd is off their feet, and Ray is shaking his head at his best friend ever, not being able to lose the smile on his face as he screams "You're such a fucking  _tool_!" over the roar of the concert. His hand grips the neck of his guitar, going automatically into autopilot and playing the leading riff to  _Heart of Gold._ Michael fumbles over his chords from laughing, though no one in the room probably noticed except for Ray, and he walks over to him on the stage.

 _"She took me down on Christmas Eve,"_ Geoff croaks out behind them, and Ray and Michael come face to face and all music stops for a few brief seconds, only the resounding, incredible sound of 2700 fans screaming back the lyrics that they wrote together.

_"Asked me if I would ever leave, her!"_

Now, there's people who say that saying "I love you" too many times makes it lose its significance. It begins to fade in meaning, becomes questionable of whether the person actually loves or not. People say to save your "I love you"s for those that you really mean it for, not to just throw the three words around like they held no power. Those people probably had no understanding of the real power words could have.

They just didn't get it, as Michael's mouth was literally on top of his ear and the song picked up and all Ray could hear was "I love you too, asshole!"

 It meant something, Ray knows it; they throw "I love you" around more often than they throw their actual lyrics around and still, every single time, it makes Ray's heart thump in his ears and it just makes everything feel so much more alive. He starts to see the colors in everything, the vibrance in life, and the song playing in his head every time their eyes met, and  _none_ of that dwindled when they said 'I love you'. It just made them stronger.

Michael leans his forehead against Ray's, and Ray could feel the hot and heavy panting on his cheeks, and he could watch as the sweat slipped down the side of Michael's face and on to his lips, a tongue darting out and licking it up. He could see the waves of color in his eyes, and he could map out the constellations on his skin, flooding with pink as he strums harder, not once breaking eye contact.

Ray places a kiss on top of his nose.

He really was the luckiest guy on the planet.


End file.
